Mighty Arising
by Leila Secret-Smith
Summary: Mairon discovers that there is more to fear from Melkor than physical pain. Much, much more. And now, he'll never be free. (A sort-of companion piece to "The Conversation," but also stands alone)


It was strange to him, a fiery spirit of earth, to finally understand just how cold he could become here, removed from the light and power of Valinor and his beloved forges. He felt like magma, oozing slowly over ice, popping and hissing in defiance—slowly dying. And yet, how could he die? He was a Maia; death was not a gift given to his kind.

He was so _cold_.

A sharp scalpel blade, frigid as ice eternally untouched by light, scraped into the bones of his fána; he jerked, strained against cutting manacles, but did not scream. His screams had died long ago, side-by-side with his hope.

"You really are such a pretty little thing, Mairon…"

Blood dripped to the already soaked floor, plopping wetly into the deep, viscous puddle below his suspended feet. He did not open his eyes.

"…but I shall make you a thing of _beauty_."

The blade scraped again into his rib. His fёa pushed frantically against the unnatural bonds that forced his fána to stay in this static form.

"You shall be a dark blade to me, my right hand, my greatest weapon."

 _No._ He did not want that. He wanted his brother.

"Oh come now, my little one! Your former master could not have given you such renown, raised you to such greatness. Under my command, my _guidance_ , you shall shed all weakness and become the greatest of all the Maiar, terrible to behold, surpassing in beauty! I shall make you _great_."

 _No. No!_ He reached out through the tenuous bond that had, out of fear, so long lain dormant, even as he had endured pain beyond all mortal imaginings. _Olórin, Olórin, where are you? Save me, I beg of you!_

The Dark Lord clicked his tongue in disapproval. The blade was unwedged from his bone marrow. "I see you have learned all I can teach you of pain," he observed dispassionately. Mairon could almost picture the Dark Lord gazing down at his broken form, ice-blue eyes half-lidded, white robes soaked in blood, blond hair wild about his face: a spirit of light in the chilling darkness, a _lie_.

He _hated_ him.

There came a careless clatter of metal against stone, as if the Dark Lord had tossed the blade heedlessly aside. "Perhaps it is time for the true reshaping," he mused.

Darkness pierced Mairon's mind, brushing his mental shields aside with a mere shred of power. This time he did scream, molten-gold eyes flying open as shards of black ice tore into his fёa, shredding pieces off in a way he had not thought possible until this moment. His sibling bond was ruthlessly sundered, torn brutally from the very base of his fёa; just before it was destroyed, he felt a panicked answer that was cut off before its completion.

He had not begged since the beginning, had not cried, but now he did. He screamed and wept like a child, pleading for the Dark Lord to stop, promising anything, anything at all if he would _just stop, please!_

But the fallen Vala did not, would not. With a dark and terrible power, he delved deeper and deeper into Marion's fёa, tearing and shredding as he went. He pieced together a new fёa from the shards, adding his own cruelty, twisting and darkening, extinguishing all light. Like an insidious parasite, he burrowed all the way to Mairon's center, all the way to the pure and luminous nexus of power that had drawn the Dark Lord's attention in the first place. He crushed it between his hands; he forced it to darken.

Mairon's scream cut off abruptly. His fёa and fána both went limp, offering no resistance as the Dark Lord added the finishing touches to his handiwork.

"There now, my little one," Melkor cooed, stroking a hand through Mairon's fire-hued locks. In an instant, all the injuries to his body disappeared and his fána was once more whole. The fallen Vala snapped his fingers and the spirit-bonds disappeared; Mairon's fёa settled into the static fána without a struggle.

The Dark Lord bent down halfway and lightly grasped Mairon's chin, raising his flushed, tearstained face with false care. "Who is your master?" he asked with silky gentleness, stroking one finger along the edge of the Maia's jaw.

Mairon's eyes slowly fluttered open; they flashed chaotically, gold, red, black, gold again, fragmenting and shifting in a way that was neither natural nor healthy; they settled on black outlined with luminescent white, like an eclipsed sun. When he answered, it was with a smooth and emotionless voice.

"You are, my Lord."


End file.
